Easy on the eyes as this exchange is growing cold.
Go on. Deliver the signs that connect us to words.
We're wishing that we can get,
And hoping for, what we yearn, but
Existence is proof of this lingering reproach.

This static distance,
The anomaly of  "Is this your fault?"
We're faltering like the rebirth of one million sighs
In moments of blindness,
But still sharing ourselves to keep what we yearn.

Nights spent spilling talk onto orphans, unwilling -
Waiting for the foursome of dimes to eat the numbers off our shirts.
Shield me from this waltzing tease of festering.

We're forgetting the meaning to the treaty for the dying.
Are we replying with those notes on the wall?
Maybe we're adding some science to the sequel of teething,
But we're marksmen at best with our mouths bleeding through the sheets.